100 Cupboards by N. D. Wilson Page B

stood to go up to his room. At the same moment, Uncle Frank rose out of the stairwell holding an ax. The head was all rust and a little red paint, but the edge looked sharp. Henry wondered when his uncle had last used it. Or if he just kept it on a regular sharpening schedule, like Aunt Dotty’s knives.
    Frank gripped the ax handle and laughed. “Here we are, Henry. We’ve grown serious.” Henry stepped out of the way as Frank approached the door. His uncle reached up to his neck and fished out a black string from inside his shirt. A silver ring dangled at the end. Frank kissed it quickly and tucked it back into his shirt. As he turned his hips, his right hand slid to the top of the ax handle and his left dropped to the bottom. He shifted his weight from foot to foot and tipped his head from side to side. It was obvious to Henry that while Frank may have been out of ax practice, he had once done it a great deal and enjoyed it immensely.
    Frank swung, his hips squaring and his right hand sliding down the handle to meet his left.
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    Grandfather’s door had once been a normal fir. It had four panels: two large vertical rectangles at the top and two smaller ones at the bottom. Its stain was dark, like walnut, but there was a lot of red buried beneath it. The color would pull the eyes and then duck and run, calling for them to try and find it. Eyes never could. But they knew it was there somewhere.
    There are places where whole forests of trees have been petrified and turned to stone. Usually this happens at the bottoms of lakes after volcanic eruptions. Grandfather’s door had not been petrified, and it was not stone. But it was something very close. Its core was stronger than stone because it was less brittle. Frank’s ax might have cracked a petrified door, but not Grandfather’s.
    The ax blade rattled the wood and ricocheted back. Frank leaned the ax against the wall, shook his hands, and examined the mark he had made. He had struck in the groove beside the top panel on the right side of the door. It was as thin as any part of the door, and the ax should have broken right through. Instead, the notch left by his swing was no more than an eighth of an inch deep. Frank didn’t say anything. He didn’t look at Henry. He grabbed the ax and began swinging.
    Henry watched blow after blow bounce off the door. Left and right Frank swung, always along the edges of the panels. The ax hopped and skipped, slid and twisted. Breathing heavily, Frank finally stopped and wiped the sweat from his head. There were small slivers of wood all over the carpet.
    â€œHenry,” he said between gasps. “I’m not sure this will work.” He picked up the ax and ran his finger along its blade. “Dull already,” he muttered.
    â€œAre we giving up?” Henry asked.
    â€œNope. We’re going to a barbeque tonight. I told Dots that one way or another, it’d be open before we left. You can run do whatever. I’ve gotta think on this for a bit.”
    â€œAre you sure? Do you need me to do anything?”
    â€œNope. Scram.” Henry went to Grandfather’s door and felt it with his hands. The notches were shallow, but there were a lot of them.
    â€œWhy doesn’t the ax work?”
    â€œDunno. That’s what I gotta think on. Your grandpa was a weird one, just as selfish dead as alive, but this is stranger than anything. Run on now. I’m headin’ out to the barn. You’ll hear me when I’m back if you wanna watch my last stand.” With that, Frank wandered back downstairs with the blunt ax over his shoulder.
    Henry did not hold still for long. Once his uncle was out of sight, he scrambled up the attic stairs and immediately applied his fingernails to the paint on the small door. A moment later, he hopped off his bed and ran down both flights of stairs before walking calmly to the dining room table, where he retrieved his newly sharpened knife.